The First Year
by FiwiKruit
Summary: The first year at Stanford was the worse. For both of them.


**Disclaimer; I own nothing but the writing**

xxx

I.

The worst part was the aching sickness. He couldn't exactly call it _home_sickness, since they'd never had a real home. But that was what it felt like. He had everything he could ever want – he'd gotten into Stanford, he was doing well in his course, he had friends, and that cute girl who sat five seats down from him had smiled at him that morning. But it didn't feel right.

And he knew why. He just didn't want to admit it.

It didn't feel right because he didn't have his big brother there to share it with. It didn't feel right because he couldn't come home each night and tell Dean about the cute girl, or about the awesome prank someone had pulled. He'd sit all school and fall back into his old habit of _worrying_ but, unlike back then, he couldn't send Dean a quick text to check if everything was okay.

Sam missed his brother. He didn't want to, but he couldn't help it. Things just weren't the same without Dean.

II.

It was hard to get to sleep at night knowing that there were only two people in the hotel room. Only two when there should have been three. It was hard to fall into peaceful dreams knowing that somewhere out there, Sam was sleeping alone.

Dean found it impossible to rest when he didn't know what his little brother was doing. Ever since they'd started all this shit, Sam and Dean had shared a room. There was an incredible comfort in knowing that he could roll over and reach out and Sam would be there, under his hand. If either of them had a nightmare, the other was there to shake them awake and sit up with them until it was safe to drift off again.

Without Sammy, Dean was alone. For the first time since Mom had died, he was truly alone. And he hated it.

III.

The slightest bumps in the night had Sam jolting awake with a start. He was getting jumpy and paranoid, and his lack of sleep wasn't helping.

The room just seemed too big without Dean in it with him.

He hadn't realised it, even after all those years together, but Dean snored. Like a pig. Whenever he slept on his back, the room filled with the sound of heavy breathing. And it had never seemed like a big deal to Sam – sure, it had bugged him a couple of nights, but other than that it was just another thing he'd gotten used to. But when it was suddenly gone, and the room was almost completely silent at night, he missed it with a fierce passion.

It's funny, the things you miss.

IV.

Dean had a lot of spare time on his hands with Sam gone. It hadn't registered in his mind, how much time he spent with his brother. But now that he had nothing to fill it with it seemed blindingly obvious.

He spent most of it thinking about Sam. Wondering what would happen if he called him up, if he apologised. He doubted Sam would come back – hadn't he told Dean that he never wanted to see his face again? – but maybe they could find their way back onto speaking terms. Sometimes he'd plan entire conversations in his head. He'd think through what he could say to make it better, then try and work out how Sam would react.

He liked to think he knew his brother pretty well, that his imagined responses for Sam were near spot-on, but he still second-guessed almost everything he came up with. He wasn't sure about anything when it came to Sammy, not anymore.

V.

Every now and then, Sam would catch himself gazing at his phone with an intense longing building up in his stomach. He had too much damn pride to pick it up and phone Dean, but not enough to stop himself from hoping that Dean would call him.

It was almost enough to make him feel sick; this deep desperation for his brother. Dean had been his everything – Sam had _made_ Dean his everything – and sometimes, without him, the world seemed awfully big and scary.

It wasn't right, he knew that, but it was hard to let go of someone so tightly woven into his life.

He had done the right thing in leaving. He'd needed to get out of that life before it drove him insane. It was the right choice.

But then, why did it hurt so badly?

VI.

It was for the best.

Dean told himself that every night and every morning. Every time he glanced at the empty back seat of the Impala or the third sleeping bag in their camping kit.

It was for the best.

The truth hurt sometimes – he knew that more than most. And the truth was that Sam had done what was best. However much Dean hated it, he knew that Sam was better where he was. And Dean could swallow down his pain and his anger, because Sammy was happy, and that was all that mattered.

It was for the best.


End file.
